


Mala In Se

by dreamlittleyo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Roadhouse, Sexual Content, one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-17
Updated: 2011-04-17
Packaged: 2017-10-18 05:25:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,341
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/185505
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU for Devil's Trap and S2. The YED put some unwanted ideas in John's head back in that cabin—thoughts John never wanted to have about his son. When he stops by the Roadhouse, he discovers that maybe Jo is exactly the distraction he needs.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	Mala In Se

It's something in the way the girl holds a shotgun.

John has stayed away from the Roadhouse for years, and if he's going to be honest with himself he's got no idea why he's returning now. The demon is dead and his boys are safe—John's always going to walk with a bit of a limp from that bullet in the cabin, but that bullet saved them all. He's never going to complain.

But there's no reason for him to be here, and the truth is John doesn't know why he's back.

He could have picked a better time, anyway—could have _not_ walked in bright and early before the place opened for the day. He could have avoided catching the girl off guard and getting the special, shotgun welcome reserved for burglars and vandals and other miscreants. Jo obviously doesn't recognize him, and to be honest he barely recognizes _her_ through all the growing up she's done since he last saw her. He looks at the spitfire young woman in front of him and can't picture her with pigtails.

Ellen joins them soon enough, and the second she catches sight of his face she gives an edgy grin and drops her gun hand to her side.

"John Winchester," she says, and if there's a bite to the sound of his name at least there's some genuine fondness to go along with it. "How long's it been?"

"Going on ten years, I think," he says. "Got your message. Just wanted to thank you for the offer, let you know everything's as cleared up as it can be."

"Mom, you know this guy?" Jo asks, reluctantly lowering the shotgun. She still holds it with a comfortable familiarity, an easy competence that makes John think of his eldest son—so easy to picture Dean standing there, pretending to relax but still at the ready.

Jo is downright pretty. Her face is bright and determined and all but impossible not to stare at, and that's a lot like Dean, too. It's nothing like a physical resemblance. Just a sense impression—an air of youth and energy that sends John's skin prickling before he can chase the thoughts away to focus on more immediate things. Things like Ellen, still holding her own gun in a slack hand, her smile warm but her eyes wary.

"Jo, this is John Winchester. He's a hunter. John, this is my daughter Jo."

"I remember," John says, nodding in greeting. He doesn't smile. He's not entirely sure what a smile would look like on his face right now.

"You sticking around for a couple of days?" Ellen asks, eyes sweeping over him as she catalogues his visible injuries. "You look like hell. You could crash in the spare room and take some downtime."

"I wouldn't want to be a bother," John hedges. Because that's not what he came here for—it's honestly not. This was just a stop on his way to nowhere in particular. Just one place to poke his head in and give a long overdue thank you, as he puts some distance between himself and his boys. As he drives in the opposite direction and works through some of the mess the demon left in his head. He can still feel it whispering, like it's hiding at the base of its skull, baring uncomfortable truths and giving him even more reasons to wish he'd gone down fighting and not gotten up again.

"It's no bother," says Ellen. "Anyway, we're short staffed this week. We can put you to work if you're up to it."

"Stay," says Jo, and John is surprised by the genuine plea in her eyes. It's disarming, and John finds himself nodding before he's finished thinking it through.

"Okay," he says. "That's… thank you. I'll just get my bag out of the truck."

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He hates feeling like a freeloader, so the very next morning he's up and sweeping long before he thinks anyone else will be conscious. It makes his arm twitch uncomfortably, not long out of its cast and apparently not up to the strain—and he would soldier stubbornly on except that Jo catches him.

Who knows how long she's been watching—long enough to catch one too many grimaces crossing his face—and she tears him a new one for overexerting himself. He argues back and loses, and realizes she _fights_ like Dean, too—determined like his boy on those few occasions when Dean called him out on something and meant it.

He drops resignedly onto a bar stool, and she watches him with somber concern. She's still too pretty: small and delicate beside him and standing a little bit too close. He knows better than to think she's fragile, but the idea is there, and it punches the air right out of him as he remembers thinking the same thing about his son— _fragile_ —as the demon held Dean pinned and bloody to a cabin wall. He can still hear the bastard's voice in his head, laughing and shivering and saying, ' _So small, really, isn't he? So helpless. How many times have you seen him like this, Johnny? How many years have you been pretending you don't want a piece?_ '

John stubbornly reminds himself that it's not true and forces himself back to the present—back to the warm, sunny bar where Jo is still staring him down like she'll smack him in the head if he tries anything too ambitious again—and she's too small, too pretty.

Too much like Dean.

He smiles, reluctant and fake, and promises to be good as he watches her take up the broom and work the floor over with practiced efficiency.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He catches her cleaning guns between bar shifts that night, weapons spread all across the rough-hewn table in the back room. Every movement is light and easy, like her hands were made for this particular chore. Maybe they were. She does it with a focused intensity, but still manages to look up without interrupting her activities when he enters the room.

' _You know how to use all those_?' he almost asks, but he knows it would be condescending. Besides, of course she does. "You use those often?" he asks instead. Closer to neutral territory.

"Often enough," she says with a smirk, obviously comfortable with his presence, and he realizes she doesn't know—Ellen must never have told her about Bill. John briefly considers breaking that wall down himself, but in the end he lets his inner coward run free. Tells himself it's because Ellen's got the right to make that choice for her family.

He sits across the table from Jo and watches her work without volunteering to help—he can tell this is more ritual than chore. Jo keeps up an intermittent stream of easy chat, an off-and-on circuit of small talk, or what passes for small talk in a hunter's world: cheapest way to collect silver for bullets, best discount prices on rock salt in the area, used bookstore just two counties over that's been bought out by a real occult freak who might have some actual magic in stock.

John leans forward onto one hand, elbow on the table, and does his best to keep his expression neutral.

The memory of the demon's voice taunts him like new, repeating the same truths it always does since that cabin, and Jo sitting there cleaning her guns—her father's guns, John realizes somberly—does nothing to stop him thinking about the things that voice had to say about Dean. Things that are a whole lot more true than John wants to admit.

He's not listening to her by the time she reassembles the last gun and sets it aside—just watching and wondering if he's supposed to have made any responses in the last ten minutes. She'll probably give him a pitying look and wander away now, guns cleaned and back in their places.

She stands slowly, almost carefully, and John raises his eyes to track the cautious movement. He doesn't quite register it when she leans forward, planting her hands in the center of the table and suddenly too close. It doesn't hit him until she's leaning even closer, her eyes intent on his mouth, and even then he barely manages to move.

He turns away at the last second, and says, "I think we both know that's a bad idea."

Jo sits back down looking disappointed, but not offended.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

He avoids her for a couple days after that, for his own peace of mind. Starts working out his escape plan—how best to tell Ellen it's time for him to move on without seeming ungrateful for her hospitality. He can always tell her his boys need him. Patently untrue, and in fact he plans to continue on in the exact opposite direction until he gets his head screwed on straight—until he finally manages to shut the demon's voice away. Until he can look his eldest son in the eye and not be worried, somewhere secret in the back of his mind, of what he might be capable of.

He's on the porch out back, midnight dark and the yard lit dimly by the light refracting through the windows, when he catches sight of a figure cutting through the open field that stretches behind the Roadhouse. It's too dark for detail beyond the glint of pale skin, light hair, slight shoulders and a leather jacket. It's the leather jacket that really sets John's pulse racing as the figure finally rounds the barn-cum-garage and draws close enough for him to identify as Jo. Her hair spills messily over her shoulders, and the brown leather of the jacket is weathered and old.

"Hey," she says, tilting her head to the side like she's not surprised to find him standing there.

Maybe it's the coat, or maybe it's the indirect glow of light casting broad shadows and emphasizing her strong, slim shoulders. Or hell, maybe it's that look she's wearing on her face, open and familiar, like she _knows_ him—but before John can help it he's stepping closer, right into her space as he murmurs a soft, "Hey yourself."

Even in the thick darkness he can see her eyes widen in surprise, her lips parting on a startled exhale, and that's all it takes to jar him back to reality. He takes a step back, cutting his eyes to the ground so he doesn't have to read the reaction on her face.

"Sorry," he murmurs. "That was out of line."

"Maybe," she says. "But maybe staying in line is overrated." When he meets her eyes, he sees them sparkling with defiant intent—wide and a little bit nervous, but mostly determined.

"Maybe it's necessary," he says. He's suddenly terrified of where this is going, but he's even more terrified that he wants so badly to see it through.

"You trying to protect me, Winchester?" She asks, and there's a challenge in her voice. "I can take care of myself, you know."

So can Dean, only John's not thinking about that. He's not thinking about much of anything as Jo steps forward—and forward again—as she steps her toes right up close and leans in like an invitation. John's got no hope of backing down now, and not even the fear of Ellen coming outside and seeing them is enough to stop him. He takes Jo's face in his hands and kisses her, too hard to be romantic, too deep to be respectful. Her lips part readily, letting his tongue slip right into her mouth, and he hopes like hell she's thought farther ahead than just kissing.

"Come on," she says on a breathy moan when he finally lets her go. She covers both his hands with her own, drawing them away from her face to thread their fingers together and pull him towards the barn behind her. "In here."

He follows readily, guiltily, hungrily—relieved that they seem to be on the same page. She latches the door shut behind them, and the last of John's willpower gives a dying gasp. He grabs her by the shoulders and shoves her against the wall, less gentle than he should be—she's a lady after all—but she doesn't seem to mind. She tugs him down for more kissing, her fingers threading into his hair, and he pins her there, eclipsing her smaller body with his own. She's all frenetic energy, sliding heat and friction, and he groans against her lips when she rubs just right against him, his dick already starting to strain against the denim confines of his jeans.

When he opens his eyes, it's to a disconcerting tilt of reality.

Jo's frame is small beneath him, against him, and the wall behind her is nothing but weather-tight slats of wood—it's barely light enough to see anything in here, and between the wood and the dusty air and Jo's leather jacket, John is suddenly stuck in unpleasant memory. He's suddenly staring at his boy, trapped and defiant and so goddamned pretty—John could feel the demon's hunger in his blood as it chortled at him, as it used his voice to threaten and torment his boys. He could feel it then, and he can feel it now, only now he's got no demon in his head to offer an excuse. Just his own sick, lonely self and a memory that he can't seem to set aside.

"John," comes Jo's voice, soft and worried, and it's feminine and real and enough to draw him back to the world. "You okay?" she asks, and John hurries to nod.

Because maybe this is exactly what he needs. Maybe she's the perfect antidote to his distraction, a medicinal herb he can wrap himself up in to chase away the nightmares.

She's not Dean. She's a pretty girl, young and eager and offering herself up just exactly the way he needs. He could feel like a dirty old man about that, sure, but compared to the alternative, it's a guilt John can live with.

"I'm fine," he says, and kisses her again. More gently this time—softer, the way she deserves.

He turns from the wall and pulls her with him, not wanting to fall back into that headspace—the cabin he needs to forget. There's a whole row of vehicles in here, and the closest is a truck—not as big as his, but sitting on tires so wide the cab has had to be jacked up. He pushes Jo against the smooth metal surface and kisses his way along her throat, biting a little and sucking just enough to mark—which is probably a bad idea, but christ, he wants to do so much more.

Her hands slide aimlessly along his back, his arms, his waist, and her touch is so sure and steady that he flashes back to the sight of those hands on a set of guns—which flashes him right back to Dean, which is where he _doesn't_ want to be. He moans something unintelligible into the skin of her throat and forces himself to focus on here and now. He slips his hands slowly up her waist on either side, testing the waters before gently sliding both hands forward to palm her breasts through her shirt. He feels her stuttered inhale at the touch, her chest rising and falling fast beneath his hands, and it's a whole lot easier to stay grounded in reality with her obviously feminine qualities so warm and soft against his palms.

" _Fuck_ ," Jo whispers, and then her hand drops, rubbing his erection through denim. John growls at the friction, too much and not enough and he wants to get on with this. He grabs for the button of her jeans and unsnaps them in a hurry, watching as closely as he can in the darkness as she shimmies her way out of them and kicks them aside. She sheds her leather jacket while she's at it, and he does the same with his own, too stuffy in here, but John already knows he's in too much of a hurry to ditch any more layers than that. He opens his fly and tugs his pants down just far enough to pull his cock free, groaning at the relief of open air.

He's about to ask if she's got a condom—even if he should have seen this coming, he still didn't _plan_ for it, and it's been a hell of a long time—but a crinkle of foil says she's already on it, and her hands are steady as they roll it onto him in the dark.

"Like this," she whispers, pressing her lips to the corner of his mouth. "Right here. Just like this." So he lifts her and presses her tight against the truck, feels her legs wrap hard around his hips, and with one arm around her waist and a hand guiding his dick, he finally drives up and in to the welcome heat of her body.

She's not a virgin, thank god, and John feels fever-hot inside her. She moans against his skin as he lifts her and pulls partway out only to rut in ever deeper, and she breathes in shocky, staccato gasps as they fall into a hungry rhythm, rocking together against the side of the truck.

He's still there with her when he comes—not in that ugly place in his head—and he can feel the frantic movements of her hand between them, right at her clit where she batted his fingers away a few minutes ago, bringing herself off at almost the exact same moment. She bites into his shoulder to muffle the scream that accompanies her orgasm, and he holds her through the aftershocks. When he finally sets her down, it's to unsteady legs and a tight grip on his sleeves.

"You okay?" he asks, searching her eyes for any hints otherwise.

"Fuck yeah," she says.

Her smile is wide and tired, satisfied and spent.

 

\- — - — - — - — -

The next morning, Ellen's eyes are quick to scan the marks along Jo's neck, and she asks her daughter a pointed, "You out late last night?"

"Went to a movie with Darryl Tyler," Jo answers without dropping a beat. John drinks his coffee and avoids eye contact, but Ellen's eyes don't even hint at suspicion when they find him.

Later, when it's just him and Ellen in the bar, John says, "I need to hit the road."

"So soon?" she asks, and there it is—the hint of suspicion she wasn't wearing before.

"Got a call from my boys," he bluffs. "They need me in Kansas City."

"Guess you better go then," she says, and the suspicion fades beneath sympathetic understanding—parental instincts and the need to protect one's children. And John's doing that, he really is. He just happens to be doing it by driving the other way as fast as he can.

Jo catches him as he makes his escape, following him out to his truck where he tosses his duffel onto the passenger seat.

"You coming back?" she asks him. Her hands are stuffed into her back pockets, and it makes her chest puff out like an unintended show of bravado.

"Maybe," he says. He already knows the answer should be 'no' but is probably 'yes'.

"Do," she says. Then in a softer tone, "Please."

He thinks about kissing her goodbye, but it's broad daylight and they're entirely too visible. He settles for a hand on her shoulder and what he hopes is a reassuring smile. The leather of her jacket is a familiar texture to the touch, and John mostly manages not to think about it as he lets go and climbs into his truck.

The ignition rattles a little as he starts the engine, and he makes a mental note to take a look at it later. Once he's driven a little farther.

Even if he's pretty sure it will never be far enough.


End file.
